


London tales

by Queen_of_the_kingdom_in_my_head



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Impressions, Gen, Guns, Kidnapping, Tags to be added for each chapter, abonded hotel, badass woman being badass, bit of blood and violence, concerned Mycroft??, steetfights, yarders don´t know about John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-01 19:24:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14527461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_of_the_kingdom_in_my_head/pseuds/Queen_of_the_kingdom_in_my_head
Summary: Just a collection of Sherlock shorts.Ch. 1: Lestrade had a hard day of work and decides to go to the shooting range. Sadly Sherlock´s already there. With a man unknown to Lestrade. Well...not so sadly anymore when the DI observes their interaction. He really wishes he had a camera.Ch. 2: She´s more than a nice face and a fantastic body. She´s the right hand of one of the most dangerous men alive. Of course she knows how to handle herself just fine.Ch. 3: Sometimes John whishes that he would be treated just like Sherlock.





	1. Bullets and Tea (yes, the tea deserves it capitals)

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my motherlanguage. So if - if, not when - you find any grammar, spelling oder other errors, please tell me so I can correct these mistakes. 
> 
> Sometimes I have a problem with naming chapters. If any of you have a better one, don´t hesitate to tell me. 
> 
> Enjoy ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Bullets and tea

 

It was late evening when the last window darkened. Just the light in the stairwell lit weakly when the Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade went down slowly. It was a long day and although the last two files could have been looked through the next day, he didn´t wanted to be the clichéd superior who always goes before his team members. And – thanks to Sherlock, who just couldn’t supress his comment when he was called in to a crime scene the last time – nobody would wait in his flat. A great detective he was! The sudden interest of his wife in water aerobics should have made him suspicious immediately.  Lestrade shook his head and stepped out of the building into the cool night. As he started to pull on his jacket his hand bumped into his shoulder holster of his service weapon. Ah, why not?, Lestrade thought and instead of going the usual way home he strolled to the opposite direction. A bit of shooting practice couldn’t hurt and was the best to let off some steam. And it was late, therefore the shooting range should be abandoned.

 

The basement in the MET held just place for a gym where the officers could train their combat techniques, so the shooting range was built in an abandoned office building that was approximately two hundred meters down the street. The MET rented the first floor and the windows were – of course – equipped with bullet proofed glass.

 

The first floor lay in the dark, but when Lestrade got near the shooting range he could see a weak ray of light under the door and hear voices. Lestrades heart beat faster, but before he could do something he recognized one of the voices. Sherlock Holmes! What in hell did he do there? The DI literally saw his nice and peaceful evening go. His shoulders slumped down. Surely Sherlock will notice him in no time and won´t be able to stay silent about the disastrous state of his marriage.

 

Lestrade just wanted to retrace when the voices got more aggressive and getting curious he hesitated. With slow, cautious movements he opened the door just wide enough for him to slip through. He ducked behind a cupboard and watched. Inwardly he shook his head at himself. Should Sherlock doing what he wanted, it wasn´t a part of his responsibility.

 

“And that want to be a captain? You can´t even hold your gun steady!” Sherlocks voice echoed through the mostly empty room.

 

Sherlock Holmes sat with crossed legs and his ridiculous coat on one of those plastic chairs.  With the back to him stands a man. In the hand a gun which was pointed at the targets that were fixed at the opposite wall. Lestrade couldn´t see much, just that the man had short blond hair and despite the cane beside him he stood secure on his feet. And that the gun in his hand did indeed shake. “At least try! That´s just embarrassing!” Sherlock again.

 

The shoulders of the stranger tightened and the gun lowered for a few inches, but was immediately raised in the former position. “Jesus, when your comrades could see you now. They wouldn´t believe how miserable you are!” The free hand of the blonde turned into a fist and Lestrade looked at the man with pity. And now did he see the sling the arm was in. No wonder the hand with the gun was shaking, he must be incredible painful to hold the weapon! “Being a doctor and not even being able to supress the smallest tremor! This psychosomatic nonsense seems to be the only thing in your head!” Lestrade thought about interfering. After all the blond one had a gun and he knows how annoying Sherlock can be. He often had to remind himself not to strangle that man. What should prevent the blonde to shoot the next bullet into Sherlock?

 

Sherlock continued to insult the man. Each comment more hurtful and mean than the previous one. Lestrade just wanted to say something, let them know he´s present, when seemingly the blonde had enough. He switched the safety on the gun on with practised movements, put it down on the provided shelf and went away from Sherlock. Apparently the vending machine was his aim and Sherlock seems to have noticed. “Black, two sugars, John!” Well, at least the mysterious blond man had a name now, thought Lestrade as he watched John pushing a couple buttons and a short while later holding two more or less hot cups in his hand. His walk now looked much steadier than before and although the cups were filled to the brim not one drop spilled over. Johns face was stony and the jaws pressed tight. Sherlock appears not to notice - or he just ignored it, like so much – and a grin spread over his lips. “Ah, at least something you still manage to do. Nice to see you´re not completely useless”, he mumbled and stretched a hand to take his cup.

 

Lestrade couldn´t understand why John didn´t just throw the cups in the bin and left Sherlock at the shooting range. How could he let himself be insulted like this? One could see that he did as best as he could. Greg argued with himself. Should he interfere? But it shouldn´t seem like he would barge in someone’s privacy without having a reason as a cop. And then he would have to explain why he – as a DI - are loitering around the shooting range of the MET like a burglar and thanks to Sherlock he embarrassed himself enough for one day.

 

Sherlock finger were grazing against the cup and- well, Lestrade wasn´t one hundred percent sure what happened, but…the coffee dripped from Sherlock dark curls which were now plastered against his skull. John himself took one sip from his own cup, Sherlocks hand still reached out. Dumbfounded like a doused poodle. And was this metaphor not just incredible fitting? John perked one eyebrow and deadpanned: “Dear God, Sherlock, I´m so sorry! But you know: my tremor, can´t do anything about it.”

 

Shocked, Sherlock finally did retreat his hand and tried to finger comb his soaked and sticky hair. His glare was murderous and with the same glare he had managed to let new officers burst into tears at crime scenes. But John had already turned around to throw Sherlocks – now empty – cup into the waste bin. Over his shoulder he asked: “Angelo´s?” Lestrade didn´t understand, but apparently Sherlock did and saw this as a kind of peace offering, because he shook his now wet hand disgusted and grumbled: “You pay.”

 

Both left the shooting range and Lestrade opened relieved his mouth. He had to bite his fist to not burst out laughing. Sherlocks _face_! Jesus, that was one of these moments where you are in desperate need of a camera… After several minutes Lestrade was in enough control – at least when he didn´t thought of Sherlock – to keep his laughter quiet. Lestrade left the shooting range half an hour later und even when he was driving to his dark and empty flat, his mood was better than before.  He could just hope that this John would be staying in London for a while. Who knows, maybe je would manage the impossible and making Sherlock a great man? He hoped that Sherlock wouldn´t drive him away like so many other before.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you don´t think Sherls an asshole: He was trying to provoke John with his comments. You know, the whole stuff with having no problems with his tremor in stressed situations and such.


	2. One woman army

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She´s more than a nice face and a fantastic body. She´s the right hand of one of the most dangerous men alive. Of course she´s everything but a frail, weak and helpless woman. She can handel herself quite well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like always: if you see any mistakes, be it spelling (I hope not) or grammar (I still hope but that´s fruitless) please tell me. English´s not my motherlanguage and it´s been years since I´ve had this in school. And I was bad then...
> 
> Title taken from that song on youtube of Natasha Romanoff being badass (I don´t know the name of the singer, so)

The sun hadn´t risen yet and most of the windows were still dark. Grey clouds hid the moon and scattered stars could be seen. A door closed and some lamps lightened up a path. A hedge threw strange shadows on the path and pebble crunched under high heels. Despite the early hour it was summerly warm und the temperatures would only rise during the day. The woman went relaxed along the street and turned after a few hundred yards into a dimly lit alleyway. The mobile in her hand was the only source of light and thin fingers flit across the display. The alley was completely deserted except for the woman and at the other end there stood a couple of waste containers. 

Suddenly the shadows next to the containers moved and a figure stepped into the way of the woman. Das scarce light showed broad shoulders, beefy arms under a ratty jacket and a bald skull. Now two other shadows silhouettes stepped out of the shadows at the other end of the alley and blocked the exit for the woman. Without any visible reaction she continued to stare at her mobile. 

“Who have we here? Don´t you know that it´s dangerous to walk alone through dark alleyway at this hour?” The man in front of her took a few steps in her direction and showed wide grinning his yellow, partly crooked teeth. 

“Yeah, just imagine what scum you could have encountered”, said one of the men behind her. Small stones crunched under heavy boots and the woman knew without turning, that he gets closer. Still, her eyes remained fixed at the screen of her mobile. 

“But luckily, you met us. We´ll make sure no one will harm you.” Yeah, great. Now even the last one had added his shit. All of this reminded her of a play of theatre. Memorised gestures to seem threatening and not one improvised word. And don´t you dare to change the script! 

She smiled inwardly. She would do shit and play along. Well, at least not to their rules. 

It seems the man didn´t liked her not showing a reaction, because he took a step further and stopped right in front of her. “Listen honey, it´s not nice to ignore someone speaking to you.” She couldn´t resist and lifted her index finger in a `Wait a second´-manner and closed all opened apps on her mobile. After all, she didn´t want to start a crisis out of carelessness and one wrong movement of her finger. 

Then, finally, she looked up. Narrow face, thin eyebrows, grey eyes, mentioned bald skull and the beginning of a five o´clock shadow. 

She smiled and adjusted the thin strap of her black designer-purse on her shoulder. “Sorry, what have you said?” She enjoyed it to annoy the man and his friends. The whole day long she played His nice, mobile addicted attendance with perfectly manicured fingernails, precisely done hair and clothes that sat on her body like made for her. Well, the clothes were tailored exactly for her, but that wasn´t the point. 

The face of the man clouded over as he pulled his brows together. His lips thinned to a fine line and at his side his hands opened and closed in a steady rhythm. One of the men at the other end of the alley stepped behind her. A heavy hand landed on her shoulder and she let herself willingly be turned around. She lifted one perfectly plucked eyebrow. Enquiring and innocent looking, as if she doesn´t knew why the men were getting more aggressive. The second man, who still had his hand on her shoulder, was equally bald like the first one, but with obviously more meat on his rips. The chequered shirt was in danger to be blown open by his weight and Anthea wrinkled her nose. “It seems you haven´t listened well enough, sweetheart. We just want to accompany you so you don´t happen to get involved with some bad people. But apparently we have to show you first, how bad chicks like you can get hurt!” 

The hand on her shoulder tightened and the third man, skinny, red hair and freckles (what the hell?), leered. She had enough. With a quick motion she took hold of Fattys hand, twisted the wrist and saw with satisfaction how the man buckled to lessen the pain. She used this moment to force the man on his knees completely, moved with him and pressed his hand palm down to the dirty ground. She released him, but before he could pull away she pressed her high, thin heel of her right shoe into his hand. Blood swelled up and she wrinkled her nose a second time that day. She liked that pair. It was comfortable, relatively sturdy and looked damn well elegant. It seems like she had to pick out a new favorite pair of shoes. 

She stood and intensified the pressure of her heel. Did she imagined it, or were that the small metacarpal bones that scrunched? Just to be sure she shifted nearly her whole weight onto her right foot and felt something give under her shoe. 

The other two men stood dumbfounded for a few seconds. They weren´t used to women making it difficult for them. She tried not to think of the not so well-fortified women who encountered these men before her. She would have to speak to Him. 

The redhead was the first to show a reaction. “What the hell?” Real eloquent. He stood in front of her with two long strides. She dodged his hand, danced around him and pushed him with both hands in the back. He staggered against the next wall of one of the buildings framing the alley. 

In the meantime she fended off the fist of the third man with her raised forearm. Redhead had gained his balance again and now pulled a knife out of his jacket. Suddenly Fatty was holding a knife too, while he pressed his other hand against his chest. He bared his teeth at her. “Stupid bitch!” 

She turned with her back to the wall so that no-one could sneak up on her. Three criminals, all taller than her, two with weapons. That wouldn’t be a fair fight. 

For the men. 

Baldy and Redhead attacked both at the same time. Each of them at one side. She ducked under their hands, turned and kicked against Baldys left knee. The joint grated, he buckled and held himself with his hand against the wall up. Redhead could stop himself just in time before he would have stabbed his cully with the knife. “Man, look out!” Baldy pushed Redhead against the shoulder and straightened himself up at which he outstretched his injured leg away from his body.

She glanced quickly at the sky. There, in the east she could make out a small discoloration. The sun would be up soon and she had to go. “Listen, guys, I really enjoy this cute date, but I don´t have the time to play with you anymore.” 

The fat one found his courage (or stupidity, as her boss liked to say) again and came at her. But he wasn´t a challenge with just one functioning hand. With two fast movements she had took his knife. Then she struck him with the handle against the temple. It was an old, daedal knife with a broad handle of metal. The man gone down after just one hit and didn´t moved again. Redhead too was losing his weapon fast after she had kicked him against his wrist and pushed him hard against his stomach with her foot. When he found himself with a painful expression on the ground – not far from his unconscious friend – he couldn´t do much to dodge the knife handle. Calmly she turned to her last opponent, just to see him stumble to the other mouth of the alley with short, uneven steps. He had one hand pressed to the wall besides him to relieve his injured knee and she watched amused, as he risked after every couple steps a fearful glace back over his shoulder. 

She followed unhurried. Swinging hips, clicking heels on the dark cobblestone and a gentle smile playing with her faint pink lips. When she reached the man she folded her arms playfully behind her back and walked by his side. “I hope you don´t want to leave me here on my own? In this dark, deserted alley. What have you and your friends said earlier? All these nasty things that could happen to a girl like me, all alone and helpless?” The man began to whimper and turned to look at her. “What do you want? We haven´t done nothing to you, leave me alone!” 

She narrowed her eyes and the smile vanished. “Yes, I bet the same things were the other girls and women saying when you lot assaulted them. And have just one of you ever stopped? Listen, asshole. You can be glad that murder is one of the few crimes I haven´t committed yet. But how goes this saying? There´s a first time for everything. So remember this: If I see you or one of your friends even just from afar, I will torment you. You think this is bad?” She pointed at the two men who were still lying senseless on the ground. Blood trickled from their temples. “When I get you in my hands you will be wishing I´d killed you.” 

To the end her voice was getting quieter and more menacing and to her satisfaction she could hear the man squeaking frightfully. There was no resemblance to the confident bloke that she was seeing a few minutes ago. She would let him go, she doesn´t felt the desire anymore to dirty her hands on him too. She brought her lips close to his ear and whispered: “Boo!” 

That was all it took. The man spurted – as well as he could with his injured knee – and did a runner. He left his friends in the alley without looking back once. Spineless piece of shit. Disapproving she turned. She had to hurry if she still wanted to be at least halfway punctual. As she passed the two men on the ground, she drove them her heel into their hands. Just for good measure. She really hoped that they wouldn´t be able to gain full usage again. If not, well, she always had a great memory for faces. It shouldn´t be a problem to dig them out of whatever hole they were hiding in and work their hands over again. 

She walked relaxed along the road, her mobile, which she still held in her hand had its screen covered in open apps again. It didn´t surprises her when a black limousine with dark tinted windows came to a halt next to her.  
Inside she sat opposite a well clothed, stern looking gentleman. His hand was resting on the curved handle of his black umbrella – like always. “Good morning, Sir.” She laid her mobile onto her lap and smiled at her boss. 

Mycroft Holmes let his eyes travel over his PA. For a less alert observer there wouldn´t be anything out of order. Like any other day she was dresses impeccably, designer purse carefully closed, hair maybe a bit more messy than usual. But he noticed all the little signs that were telling him that this morning was everything but ordinary. 

“Anthea, after the meeting with the Brazilian representative we have to pay a visit to my cobbler. I can´t have my employee and confidant walk around with bloody shoes.”

Anthea nodded. “Yes, Sir.” With this short response she answered the silent, second question too, which had shined in his eyes. She was alright. Sound and safe, no injuries.


	3. Hostages and...hostages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wishes that sometimes he would be treated like Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual: Still not a native english speaker. Any mistake, spelling or grammar errors are mine and would like to be returned to their mummy. 
> 
> otherwise: Enjoy :)

It hadn´t been four hours since John was kidnapped and woken up in a cold, mould covered room. Giant, in the corners hanging spider webs caught the dust and a single naked bulb hang from the ceiling and bathed the small room in dim, unsteady light. Windowless, moist and cold. John doesn´t had to be a genius to know that he had woken up in a basement again. For the second time this month. And it wasn´t even the tenth.

In one corner led an old pipe from the floor to the ceiling and disappeared into the harsh plaster. Water drops fell in a steady rhythm and gathered in a puddle. John lay on his back and only when he wanted to sit up did he noticed that his wrists were bound in front of his chest. The rough rope cut into his skin and chafed it raw when he tried to free himself. 

They were just watching a suspect when four men attacked them. It seems like their suspect wasn´t just an unimportant student and a petty criminal with merely a handful of contacts to the local underworld. All, John could understand from the short explanation (ha!) Sherlock gave him and the words he heard the attackers mutter was, that Thompson – their suspect – supplied one of the bigger drug bosses of London with new substances so he could change the mixture of his goods.

Sherlock was with him to that time. John hoped, that he hadn´t started a discussion with their kidnappers and ended up as fish fodder floating in the Thames. While he worried about his flatmate, he inspected the rope which held his wrists painfully together.

He noticed one part that looked more cavernous than the rest. John dragged himself to his feet and staggered a few steps to the wall. His head still felt fuzzy after the blow he took. His left eye pulsed also and John got into enough fights to know how a black eye felt. As he reached the wall, he let himself sank to his knees and rubbed his wrists on the rough plaster, in the hope to wear through the rope.  

After several minutes, his wrists began to bled and every motion sent impulses of pain up his arms. But John knew that, if he would stop, he couldn´t bring it over himself to start again. And he had success. Soon, the rope gave and fell to the ground and John just waited for a short moment with his head leaned against the wall, till the pain in his wrists subsided.

The only exit was a door on the opposite wall and John cursed the fact, that apparently he´s always stuck with the empty warehouses or mildewed basements. At least they left him his shoes. He slipped off his right one and opened the hidden cubicle at the heel. The sole opened and revealed a look at a small, but well equipped safe-deposit. Sherlock persisted to get this gadget, after John got kidnapped for the third time in their two-month long acquaintanceship.

John kneeled carefully in front of the door and listened for any noises outside the room. Nothing. It took him two minutes to pick the lock. He stashed the picking-set back into the small cubicle in his shoe and pushed the handle down. The corridor behind the door was deserted and just limited cleaner than his cellar. Dust was piling in every corner and the window glass high on the wall was blind with dirt. John rubbed his cold hands together and walked quietly along the corridor. They took his weapon and he didn´t saw anything that could be used instead. Which doesn´t meant that he was helpless. He just had to be more careful when he´ll knock their kidnappers out.

At the end of the corridor was a second door (unlocked) and sceptical he sneaked up the stairs. He couldn´t believe that there wasn´t anyone standing guard. How careless can one be? When John reached the ground floor, he glanced through the big windows. A desolated car park, unkempt bushes and an expired looking building over the way. Snow blanketed everything with its pretty, thickening coat. John observed the big hall: grey floor, yellowed wall paper and on the ceiling hung a great lustre covered in spider webs. It seems he was in an old hotel.

He took a left-behind letter opener from the reception as weapon. John made sure he was alone and then took to the other floors. On the second he encountered two men, which he fast overpowered and confined in two different bathrooms, after he took their mobiles. To his luck the locks were still intact. The farther up he went, the cleaner (or, less rotten) the building became. More and more windows were unbroken und therefore less dirt, debris and half moulted leaves were blown inside.

John searched the third floor and dialled Lestrades number along the way. They had to localize the mobile he was calling from, because John had no idea where he was. But Lestrade found his current whereabouts quickly and promised John to arrive in no more than thirty minutes with backup. And please, don´t do any solo attempts. Yes, sure.

On the fourth floor he fought he remaining kidnappers and those too ended in separate bathrooms. John should be alone now, if they didn´t had any accomplice in the building. He just hoped he´ll find Sherlock fast. Where the hell did they put him? Twenty minutes later he stepped on the last floor and the third door to the right was locked. Of course the spivs locked them up with as much distance between them as possible. With held breath he listened at the door. Nothing. Then: “You can come in, if you want to, John!”

John startled, just to shake his head. Of course Sherlock somehow knew that he was making his way over to him. Sighing he picked that lock too, opened the door, stepped in and paused puzzled.

Here too were the windows unbroken but so dirty that you couldn´t look outside. On both sides hung floor-length, flossy looking curtains. The dust was hastily swept into the corners and you could see the faded, once certainly very expensive carpet. Pictures in once gilded frames hung on the walls, a lounge and the matching armchair had upholstery of tattered velvet. On the ceiling dangled a giant lustre and at the side wall stood a tall chimney in which crackled a small fire. No wonder it was warmer in here than on the corridor. Opposite the chimney was a big king-size bed. Completely covered with clean sheets and a nice looking bedspread. The pillows were leaned against the wood-carved top and the bedspread showed some complex ornaments.

And on this very bed lay William Sherlock Scott Holmes. His hands were cuffed against the bedframe with padded cuffs that looked like they were purchased in some fetish-shop and John could still feel how the rope chaffed his own skin bloody. In the flickering light of the warming fire Sherlock looked just as relaxed and uninjured as if he´d spent a calm afternoon at 221B instead of being kidnapped, knocked out by some criminals and locked up in a rundown hotel afterward.

Johns fists clenched suspiciously as he took all this in.

Later, DI Greg Lestrade would say that the first thing he heard from the two hostages after he and his colleagues secured the area would be Johns angry and nearly offended words: “Oh of course, _you_ get the fancy room!”

 

 


End file.
